


Brightstar

by Vhospyr



Series: Zaith [1]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars: Rebellion Era - All Media Types
Genre: Bounty Hunters, Ensemble Cast, Female Protagonist, Original Character(s), Other, POV Female Character, Post-Star Wars: Return of the Jedi, Science Fiction & Fantasy, Space Opera, Space Pirates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-26
Updated: 2019-06-29
Packaged: 2020-05-19 21:26:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19364371
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vhospyr/pseuds/Vhospyr
Summary: STAR WARS: BRIGHTSTAR is an original work following the rags-to-riches adventures of a bounty hunter in the aftermath of the Emperor's defeat, as Imperial influence wanes and something else entirely takes its place in the galaxy.I've had this long and winding tale in my head for years, full of romance and deceit, action and politics, and a sprawling adventure through the Mid and Outer Rim. Familiar faces will be few and far between: this is all about an original cast of characters with stories all their own, centering on a down-and-out bounty hunter antihero in a small-time gang with big dreams on her way up the galactic food chain.Bear with me as I slowly work my way through my own personal Star Wars novel. There's gonna be space piracy eventually, I promise. I'll be updating the tags, categories, etc. as the story progresses and evolves. Do I have an endgame? Sort of. Will this fizzle out over time? Hopefully not, but maybe. Have I ever used AO3 before and do I have any idea how it works? Absolutely not. Will anyone here be interested in a completely original story using the Star Wars universe as its canvas? Boy, I hope so!





	1. Tirik

**Author's Note:**

> A long time ago in a galaxy far, far away...

Something had changed. Nothing obvious: plumes of smoke still rose into the violet sky from the thousand foundries dotting the desert; workers still bustled onto the tram-car into Tirik; the Empire’s troops still patrolled, looming over their citizens with ever-watchful eyes of black. No, the difference was in the atmosphere. Something subtle and electric now underscored life on Qimmir.

Or so, at least, thought the filthy girl at the back of the tram. No one sat near her if they could help it, for fear of the stench she exuded. Matted, sweat-stained hair clung to her face, its auburn edge lost beneath layers of grime. A month-old grease stain still darkened both her sleeveless shirt and the too-large flight suit she wore in place of pants, its torso left unzipped to dangle behind, secured by maroon sleeves tied like a belt around her waist. The sum of its parts was a spectacle she wished she could avoid, given her line of work... but today, even the stormtroopers ignored her.

Always two there were, stationed in every tram cab, stark in their white suits of armor: one at the fore, one in back. The latter would normally watch her like a hawk-bat, hands clenched on a blaster grip. Today though, the pair stood together at the front, side by side, far away from her, whispering to each other throughout the commute. The passengers gave them an even wider berth than usual thanks to the blaster-barrel greeting they'd received at every tram stop. Stormtroopers were always mean, but this? This was something else entirely.

The Empire was, despite everything, comforting in its consistency. But somewhere, somehow, there was a spanner in the works, and even here at the ass-end of the Mid Rim, she felt it. Had she anywhere else to go, anything else to do, she would be far, far away. But she didn't. So she wasn’t.

She was here.

The ruddy horizon vanished as the tram-car passed through a mountainside tunnel, transforming the window into a blackened mirror. For an instant, she saw in its reflection the disgusting creature she’d become. She winced and turned away, forcing her thoughts off of the Empire and herself, thinking instead of work.

Work, of course, was miserable. But in time it would rescue her from this smog-drenched dustball. For now, it would at least give her the scratch for a bath, maybe even a bed, and that was more than worth looking forward to.

The tram lurched, began screeching to a halt on its centuries-old track. Soon they were pulling into Mountainside Station at Tirik’s western edge. _“This is the last stop,”_ said an automated voice over the intercom, first in Basic, then again in a handful of Mid Rim tongues. _“Thank you for riding C-01. Please exit the cab.”_ The tram stopped, its doors hissed open, and everyone disembarked.

Well, everyone but the girl in the back. She waited for the commuters, partially for politeness, but mostly to watch the pair of stormtroopers at the fore. They were silent now, and seemed… _unsure_ was perhaps the best word for it, waiting on something that hadn't yet come. They shuffled in place, fingers twitching, not even watching folk leave. Not even watching the girl.

She shrugged and walked off, taking some of her stink with her, but leaving a veritable cloud of it behind. That was a problem for future passengers, not her.

***

Torn, dusty boots and the calloused feet within led her body through a sea of beings. When she could move swiftly, wading through sentient waves like a viga through a Dolean tide (for all the good that old expression would do her on this dry planet), she evaded all notice. Speed and the crowd's bulk of odors masked her perfectly. Too wide a berth, though, and her stench would spread. Too much foot traffic and no room to pass, it would pool around her, and all would turn to stare at the disgusting little human in the crowd. Better to test her boundaries now, she figured, and so she sought crowds with a workable balance.

As far as she was concerned, there were two schools of thought to proper bounty hunting: be seen and feared, or meld with crowd and shadow. The former wouldn’t work thanks to her gaunt, underfed frame. The latter? A work in progress, at its worst on the elevator down into the city.

She stood on the great platform descending the cliff's edge, one being sandwiched between dozens more, near everyone a different species than the last. Anyone with a nose was holding it.

"Smells like... dead nerf," some Trandoshan groaned.

"Come on," his buddy laughed, trying and failing to feign compassion. "Don't be an ass."

"No, no, it smells like a bantha _defecated_ on a dead nerf."

A few near her were realizing the smell's source. They tried to shuffle away, but couldn't make it far on the overstuffed, re-purposed freight elevator.

 _Jumping off is always an option_ , she thought, and imagined helping that Trandoshan on his way with a solid shove. Like most things on Qimmir, the elevator had not been built with safety in mind. Little more than chest-high guardrails protected passengers from the drop, and there was nothing to cushion the fall but the streets of the city below.  _Tirik already has a billion stains. What's one more?_

The city had been a mountain once. Mined completely out of existence and then further into the crust, only a lopsided crater remained, its western edge a sheer wall of stone, its east side a steep ramp, all perfect for protection from the dust storms which ravaged the desert. Old mining equipment had been repurposed into housing, then businesses, and the city snowballed from there. It was, of course, hideous, and even her current vantage from on high -- a skyline view which would have done most cities a thousand favors -- rendered Tirik a random, swirling bundle of ocher buildings. A rare few toward the center were some forty storeys high; most were a minuscule fraction of that. It looked, she realized, not unlike a bird's nest constructed of twigs and shiny things, peculiar and spiraling. A thick cloud of soot-blackened smog clung to the rooftops, gently rolling over the lips of the man-made crater and into the arid lands beyond.

Much like the tram, the elevator squealed and grinded to a halt at rock bottom. Folk scattered quickly when the boundary arm raised, ducking beneath it as needed, escaping the stink as quickly as able. The girl carried on into the crowded city streets. A constant breeze of dust and smoke blew across its cramped corridors. Speeders, antithetical to the name, crawled sluggishly up through the streets, allowing pedestrians to pass, who in turn squeezed themselves against buildings to give vehicles a berth. Instead of their usual three-to-four-troop squads, the Empire's legions patrolled scattered and aimless, like a dusting of sand in the wind. To her, they seemed to be feigning some semblance of control, keeping watch over everything they could at once. It made them disjointed.

She could use that.

Pressed against the window of a restaurant as a transport lumbered by, she withdrew her datapad and began following its directions: turn left on Lott Street, right after the Rusty Shackleford, and head down the alley before Meek Mynock's. The last step was cryptic: "find the flag."

The alley was mostly the same sandstone-brown as the rest of the city, worn a little grayer from pooled smog and carpeted in trapped sand. Either wall bore only back doors to businesses, and it ended on the far side perpendicular to another cramped street. Beside the odd window, the only decorative element was a sticker plastered onto one of the doors, awkwardly angled: the insignia of the Empire, a silver, six-pronged spoke on a field of black.

 _A flag if I ever saw one_ , she thought, and tapped a button on the keypad besides. It beeped grumpily at her, refusing to open. She grunted back, and knocked instead.

"Who knocks?" asked a voice inside.

"You know who," she said.

"Tsk, tsk. You’ve got a passphrase, Z. Use it."

" _An emissary, favored_ ," she spat back, and the door hissed open.

A dark room greeted her, covered in thick cloth hanging limply from the ceilings. A Weequay man leaned against the doorframe, a single long finger tracing the ridges of his brows. "You're early."

“Loquin,” she smiled, arms outstretched overdramatically. “Been a while. _Great_ to see you, buddy.”

“Sarcasm doesn’t suit you, kid,” he huffed. His trademark hat was missing, but he wore the same long synthleather coat as always. It was a damn fine jacket, striking and burgundy, and was the only tolerable thing about the bastard. “Neither does ignoring the timetable.”

"Tram ran fast."

"Yeah, I'll bet it did." Whatever the hell _that_ meant. He was checking his fingernails now, avoiding her eyes.

"Captain’s got something for me?" she asked after a few moments' silence.

"Damn right he does. Reshhar Blass is holding another rally downtown. Legally, but that's not saying much these days."

“Ah.” The so-called _Gangster King of Tirik_ himself.

"Noon, sharp. On stage in the plaza, surrounded by the masses, you know the deal." She did. The gang had sent her to many rallies, just to watch. Loquin, too. _Keeping an eye on the enemy_ , and so on. "He’s bringing something out of his vault, and we need to grab it. That's where you come in."

So not a debtee late on payments to bring in, or a small-time crook to silence. Not even the usual Blass recon mission. She was in Tirik to bring home an item. Unusual, but exciting. “But there’s a catch,” she assumed, "isn't there?"

“That there is.”

“It’s either too big to carry, or whatever I'm grabbing, it’s on somebody's person.” She was guessing now, but those were the only options which made sense.

“Got it on number two."

"On Blass? Or one of his goons?"

"The big man himself," Loquin smirked.

“Any idea what 'it' is? Or are we all flying blind?”

“You’ll know it when you see it.”

“Hmph. Thing's important, then?”

“That it is."

"And I'm to do all this in front of hundreds of civilians, his own men, and the Imperials?"

"Yep."

She crossed her arms. "Done."

"Well,” he said, unimpressed, “that handles that. And I've got a package for you, too, but… first, I have to ask."

"Shoot."

"What _is_ that smell? Is that you?"

She sighed. "Fuel spill. And a grease spill. And some oil. And the flight suit," she said, running her hands up its thighs, "I found on a dead guy."

" _D_ _ecomposing_ , dead?"

"That's not important."

"Z… come on. Does the word ‘decorum’ mean anything to you?"

She shrugged. "I needed pants."

"So buy some."

"Yeah, sure. Pay me a living wage, maybe."

"Hey," he said, showing his palms in defense. "Not up to me. You been bathing, at least?”

"You know damn well how much running water costs on Qimmir."

“Alright, fine, I’ll drop it. Yeesh. Anyways...” He reached a hand into his coat and withdrew… “This is for you.”

Long barreled, black paint chipped and wearing to silver, its grip lengthy and ergonomically designed. Old fashioned, but powerful. It was a blaster, one she recognized instantly. “A _Flintock_?”

“9-90 series, yeah. Catch.” Loquin tossed it to her, and she caught it, taking a moment to marvel in the cold metal casing of the antique.

“How old is this?”

“Old.”

“It still work?”

“Better than that crap the Empire churns out, believe me.”

“So…” She paused, disbelieving. “The Captain’s trusting me again? After the Truss incident?”

“Water under the proverbial bridge,” he smiled. “Just hide it somewhere in that... jumpsuit of horrors.”

Already, she was tucking it into her makeshift sleeve-belt. “Am I gonna need it, you think?”

“Good chance. Solid backup plan, at least.”

“So… town square?” she asked, already backing away.

“Town square,” he confirmed. “And, Z?”

“Yeah?” She was practically skipping now, still backwards, full speed ahead. Or behind, she supposed.

“This is your last chance. Don’t muck this one up.”

“When have I ever screwed up?” she asked, remembering the aforementioned Truss incident just a moment too late.

“And whatever you do, don’t lose the blaster!” Loquin called after her. “It’s a loaner! I mean it, kid!”

She had no intention of losing it, of course. Having her weapons revoked had landed her in this gutter she'd found herself in; she'd be damned if she was going to stay there.

No, this blaster was hers, now. The gang could go to hell if they thought they'd be seeing it again soon. And the instant they paid her she’d be gone, vanishing into the desert, or maybe, _hopefully_ , the stars.


	2. Eyes and Ire

There was a pop-up Imperial checkpoint in her way, because of course there kriffing was. Stormtroopers organized citizens into lines going into the city square, and one by one, they were checked for weapons and paraphernalia. It seemed unnecessary and out of character, especially for one of Blass’s rallies, but there was nothing she could do about it now. She was in line, and it was moving fast.

As far as she knew, this was the only way into the plaza at Tirik's core, where spiraling blocks ended and a wide-open duracrete field took their place. Strips of half-dead grass and planters full of withering trees and shrubbery lined the space in dizzying geometric patterns, all centered on a dried-up pond and the square’s most recent addition: a tall, rectangular stage. This was the seat of Reshhar Blass’s power. Outer Rim gangster turned semi-legit baron, Tirik was his home turf, and like it or not, the Empire here only held peace through their uneasy alliance. If the hulking Dowutin wasn’t happy, there would be hell to pay. Everyone knew it, and the garrison had paid the price more than once in the early days of their reign.

Last month, Blass's gang captured a Rebel spy and handed him over to the Empire. This show of security, the girl assumed, must have been their gesture of thanks.

The closer she crept to the checkpoint, the more she could make out the scene in the plaza. Reshhar was nowhere to be seen -- and he was a hard man to miss, to be sure -- but she recognized several of his lieutenants on-stage, armed and watching over the crowd.

Between her and them, a blaster was found on a would-be spectator. She refused to relinquish it, and was led away at the barrel of an E-11 rifle. Suddenly, the heft of her new pistol weighed on her. But she was so near the front of the line, and there was nothing she could do. She needed to be here, to do this. And so she waited: fifteen people to go, then ten, then fewer and fewer until she was only third in line. First was a Melitto in a heavy, many-pocketed cloak. Each needed to be searched individually. To his credit, he didn't complain. His chitinous gaze drifted lazily from one trooper to another as they rifled through computer and mechanical parts.

Second in line was a Human who huffed and puffed with blatant irritation. "Can you believe this?" he turned to ask, hoping to find some ally in the terribly smelly girl behind him. "Ridiculous! We’re going to miss the rally! You should be sending it to the back of the line, or refusing it outright." The "it" of course being the alien. "I want to speak to the Moff!"

Finally, they released the poor insectoid and let him pass. The man before her turned back again. "What was so hard about that?" He flashed a self-important grin as if he’d alleviated the situation himself.

"Fresh off the shuttle?” she said as patronizingly as she could. “I remember being new here, too. The arrogance fades when the hair starts to mat." She tugged on a lock of hair.

The man went a little red. "Excuse me? I'll have you know, I--"

"Sir? You're holding up the line." She shooed him with a handwave and, embarrassed, he scurried on. He was scanned, inspected, and sent on his merry way.

"Next!"

And with that, the tunnel vision set in. The million plans she'd formed in her mind while waiting congealed into a confusing mass of disparate thoughts. She took one step forward, then another, and so on. Two stormtroopers in dusty armor stopped her and produced their scanner, which _beeped_ immediately over the cloth-buried blaster on her hip.

"Ma'am, please state any weapons you may be -- !”

That ugly mass of plans in her mind was swallowed in an instant by instinct. The trooper’s demand was cut short, ending in a grunt of surprise: his own rifle had suddenly slammed against his helmet, and a greasy palm followed it square between the eyes. He stumbled back, and she used the momentum to sprint past and clothesline him, leaving the sop flattened on the pavement.

“Blast her!” screamed the second trooper, immediately opening fire. She sprinted past the arrogant bastard from the line, now seemingly terrified by her, then the Melitto, and into the plaza’s curious forming crowd. Some were jumpy from the brief blasting, but most kept their heads down and pressed on, intent on avoiding the eyes and ire of the Empire. Quickly, the shots halted as she vanished into the crowd, though she heard a legion of footfalls following. She weaved in and out of groups of beings, deeper into the mass. Soon enough no armor clinked, no shouts were called, and only the din of the crowd remained. A breath shivered from her lungs, and she pressed on.

“Did you hear those blasters?” a voice asked. “I hear _this_ is the big one,” said another. All around her, questions and speculation swirled from the mouths and minds of Tirik’s citizens. Laborers, office workers, gangsters and so on collected together to ponder on whatever spectacle awaited them.

Much like the city itself, she adopted a spiral pattern, circling the plaza, closing slowly on the stage. Still, there was no sign of Reshhar himself. More beings filtered in from checkpoints all around, pooling into the crowd, congesting the square. With every passing minute, it was harder to move, but she had to press closer. She hoped to catch Reshhar before he took the stage. Failing that, she needed to be in close to the action. “ _You’ll know it when you see it_.” Stars, she hoped that was true.

Iumlat, Blass’s right-hand man, was missing from the stage. She found him instead skulking through the crowd in a long duster. His horns -- unusually tall, even for a Devaronian -- made him easy to track. He seemed to be meeting with people at random, producing something from his coat, handing it off, then moving along. For a time, every handoff seemed to vanish into the crowd, undetectable. But finally she caught a glimpse of one: a Rodian woman, tucking a newfound blaster into her vest.

 _What the hell does_ that _mean?_ She stalked closer to Iumlat, intent on answers. Within a meter of him she watched another weapon handoff, then reached out a hand --

Only to have hers grabbed by long, familiar, and severely calloused fingers. “What the hell do you think you’re doing here?!”

“Loquin?!”

“What are you doing, kid?” The Weequay was seething, spittle flying into the girl's face.

She stuttered, dumbfounded. “I’m doing my _job_. The one _you_ sent me on!”

He squeezed one hand tighter around her arm, and the other on the bridge of his own wide, brown nose. “How are you not getting this? Go home, Z. You’re done here.”

“I haven’t even done anything!”

“How about punching your way through an Imperial checkpoint? That’s something! More attention than we needed, certainly.”

“What was I _supposed_ to do? They would have found the blaster!”

“You were _supposed_ to get caught with the damned thing! They were _supposed_ to realize what that thing is, and you were _supposed_ to get sent to the brig! And I was _supposed_ to squeeze through while you made a scene!"

She was aghast. “Are you kidding me?”

“Turns out, you caused a scene of an entirely different sort." Loquin snarled, spat on the ground. "You know they closed the damned checkpoint behind you?”

"Let me guess: your window closed? Poor you."

“Yeah, I'm lucky I'm creative. It paid off, at least. No thanks to you. Regardless, you’re out. Get gone,” he said, tugging hard on her. They closed in closer together. The crowd, too, closed in a little tighter. Sweat-stained backs pressed awkwardly against her, boxing her in with Loquin.

“No,” she spat, her index pointing a hard line to his face. “I’m worth more than a damned _patsy_. I -- ...” She paused a moment, remembering. “What do you mean, they’d ‘realize what this thing is’?” She withdrew the pistol, holding it between them. “It's not a blaster?”

He pushed it back down to her gut, searching left and right for eyes on them. “Of course it’s a kriffing blaster,” he spat. “It’s just… also, stolen Imperial property. Don’t worry about it.”

A weeks-old rumor resurfaced in her mind. “The Moff’s?”

“ _Maybe_. I said, don’t worry about it.”

“The Captain stole the kriffing Moff’s prized blaster?”

“Are you gonna stop worrying, or are we gonna have a problem?”

She brandished it again. “One more thing.”

“Put that thing away.”

“Iumlat’s in the crowd, handing out blasters. Is he defecting? Starting a riot?”

“Defecting? From Blass? That’s a laugh.” His eyes searched the crowd again, but he made no moves to lower the weapon she'd leveled between them. “Reshhar’s starting the riot, not him.”

“So there _is_ a riot? Against who?”

“Who do you think?” He nodded toward a squad of stormtroopers wading through the crowd, tinny voices barking to each other.

“Seriously?” Her slim eyes squinted, sure that Loquin was taking her for a ride. Blass finally had an easy peace here. Surely he wouldn't ruin that.

Would he?

Loquin shrugged. "That's what we hear, at least. Seems something changed last night, but our intel -- wait. Why am I telling you all this? Get out of here, Z!"

"Because you're an idiot, Loquin." And with that, she thwacked him hard with the butt of the blaster. He winced, stumbled back, and she hit him again, this time on the temple. He collapsed in a heap on the ground, and a few nearby gasped and shouted, but most kept their eyes down. Eyes and ire, all that.

He mumbled some swear or another, groggily trying to reach his feet, but she was long gone before he did. She weaved once again through the plaza, choked as it was by a mass of sentients and a cloud of smog.

Noon was here, and the job was at hand.

***

The heat was blistering. Theirs was a small, weak star, but Qimmir orbited so closely it may as well have been the hottest in the galaxy. She thought briefly of the Melitto from the checkpoint, frame buried beneath a heavy cloak. She wondered if his insectoid race felt heat the same way mammals did.

She was behind the stage, now -- not that it technically _had_ a front, as the crowd gathered all around, but Blass tended to favor the side which looked east toward the plaza’s fountain and a more attractive line of buildings. Here, amid a sea of folk from hundreds, maybe thousands of different worlds, with the scent of sulfur and heat-baked metal flowing in from the thick of the city, she was almost unnoticeable. Almost. Stood still too long, her stench would still collect, and she looked like death incarnate, but as long as she kept moving, she remained mostly unnoticed.

A cheer arose from somewhere to the right, and she followed the din to find something massive -- _someone_ massive -- peeking out from over the crowd. A huge head of thick, ocher skin bobbed in time with a broad gait. It was utterly bald, sporting two stubby horns which protruded beneath a thick bottom lip. His wide, toothy mouth consumed most of his face, leaving little room for the beady black eyes beneath his strong, hairless brows.

Yep. He was Dowutin. “ _Big as a hutt and twice as mean_ ,” the saying went. It wasn’t quite accurate, but then again, what prejudice was?

Cheers were cried as he ascended the stage's steps, but he silenced them quickly with a bulky-armed gesture. The Devaronian, Iumlat, was beside him now, coattails flowing. The rest of Blass's lieutenants were either sitting on the edge of the stage, or standing on the ground besides. Reshhar himself wore an impressive suit with an Outer Rim flair, armored but presentable, olive and black with a mustard tie to complete the look. He cracked his neck -- right, left, and right again -- before addressing the crowd.

“Citizens of Tirik,” he spoke, already-booming voice amplified further by a megacaster. His words echoed from the duracrete pavement to the buildings beyond and back again. He was king here. That was impossible to deny.

Someday, that would be the Captain up there. Or so Loquin and the gang desired, and so too should she. Until then, Reshhar Blass reigned supreme.

“I apologize on behalf of the Empire. Were it up to me, your weapons would not have been taken today. It seems a slight in the face of our freedom, but no matter. This is a momentous occasion, my friends. Momentous indeed.” He paced the stage and scratched idly at his horn-framed chin. “Something has changed, and our overseers do not wish us to know. Someone has died, and they do not wish us to see.”

That got the crowd talking. Murmurs rose and fell and rose again like waves. The Imperials stopped their prowling, choked on their blasters, and held. Even the scraggly bounty hunter felt a chill as the galaxy shuddered, her suspicions confirmed.

“Perhaps you’ve noticed the change, perhaps not. This, too, matters not. In time, regardless, you will all know a different life. One ripe for the taking. But we must do just that, my friends: _take it_.”

From the civilians: a gleeful, if confused, cheer. From the stormtroopers: constant chatter, and a rush toward the stage. A white wave crashed through the crowd, trudging ever-closer to the man who was king in all but name and title.

“Last night, in the skies above the forest moon of Endor, Emperor Palpatine himself was killed! Murdered by the Rebellion!”

“Lies!” someone yelled. Much of the crowd gasped.

“The Core is in disarray, the Empire without chain of command, without an Emperor! Coruscant’s time is done. This is the age of the Rim, Tirik! This is the time for us to stand up! To strike! To carve out our own capital in a brand-new galaxy!”

The crowd bustled, rose and fell, a cacophony of every possible emotion and reaction.

“Take him out,” she heard somewhere, filtered through a stormtrooper’s helmet. “Now!”

An entire squad took aim -- and then exploded, as a thermal detonator consumed them on detonation. Two of Reshhar’s lieutenants opened fire, and the rest followed suit.

“Follow me, Tirik! Into a new age!” And with that, his hulking hand withdrew something from a pocket: a tiny, silver cylinder, far too small for his grip.

The citizens Iumlat had armed opened fire as one. Stormtroopers, caught unaware, were falling. The whole plaza smelled of ozone.

On stage: Iumlat had brandished twin pistols and was firing bolts at oncoming soldiers; the tiny cylinder was raised above Reshhar’s head.

With a _snap-hiss_ , it ignited. A stream of azure set the air above him aglow, and a blade of pure light formed from nothing. This was it, her reason for being here, and damned if she didn’t know it when she saw it: the weapon of a Jedi, a lightsaber.

She could see it now, clear as the scene before her. Reshhar Blass, Baron of Qimmir, lord and ruler of the Mid Rim; overtaking the headless Empire through the purifying light of a legendary weapon. The Jedi Order's vengeance made manifest by his hand. The Imperial grip would loosen from the Rim, fingers severed one by one by azure light. A new era would dawn.

It would have been a nice story.

She raised the Moff’s stolen blaster and fired.

The gangster screamed as the bolt hit his hand, searing the flesh and sending his saber -- its blade vanishing with an electric _hiss_ \-- sailing into the crowd. She was already running.

She found a twi’lek rubbing her head gingerly where a hilt-shaped bruise was forming. She shoved the blue-skinned woman aside, and on the ground beneath where she’d been lay the bounty. Its silver sheen had been weathered with age; the emitter at its head was slightly angled, lending it a sleek and modern silhouette; midway up its slim length was a black chokepoint ergonomically designed for a thumb and index to twirl.

It was the most beautiful thing she’d ever seen. But as she went to grab it, two other hands reached down at the same time, each gripping different pieces of the hilt.

The first, gripping the black midsection, was ruddy and red, and its Devaronian owner regarded her with a disgusting, toothy sneer. The second, holding onto the head of the thing, was mottled brown, long-fingered, and as always, quite familiar. Her grease-smudged hand, meanwhile, gripped the bottom of the hilt.

She drew her blaster and fired at the Devaronian, and the infamous Iumlat died in an instant. With that, she turned the barrel onto the last man standing: Loquin.

“Really, Z? We don’t got more important stuff to do?”

“Drop it, Lo.”

“No," he spat. "No, I don’t think I will.”

“Drop the kriffing saber.”

“This ain’t your place, kid. This is bigger than you.” Somewhere nearby, Reshhar was screaming and stormtroopers were dying. He’d be searching for his saber; they were running out of time. “Give me the artifact, and we can both go back and explain -- ”

“‘Artifact’? Loquin, this is a kriffing _lightsaber_.”

“A remnant from the Jedi! It’s all old-fashioned junk, who cares?”

She didn’t know how to explain it. Something inside her burned. Reshhar could have, _should have_ , taken the galaxy by storm with it. He was already powerful, but this weapon would have made him a damned god. The Empire had trampled the Jedi's dying, flickering flame, and they would _be_ trampled by their embers. The girl wanted that. Not the Jedi, not the vengeance, per se, but… that _power_.

She was sick to death of being pushed and slapped around, used as a damned patsy by a gang who would never respect her. The Captain wouldn’t even show for jobs like this. He merely desired the reward so he could swoop into town later and take what had been won in his name. The bastard had charisma for parsecs, but little else.

She couldn’t stay here forever, working for a coward on this smog-soaked dustball.

Godhood, as it turned out, sounded nice.

“Kid,” Loquin stammered, “come on. Give me the saber.” The crowd around them was dispersing fast, screaming and shouting, fighting and dying. They’d be in clear view of the Empire -- or worse, Blass -- in no time. They had to move. They both knew it. “Put the blaster down. Let’s get outta here.”

“And why would I do that?”

“Because you’ve got a future here, kid! I’ve always liked you. You know that, right? Always! I’ll put a word in with the Captain, and -- ”

“You’ve _never_ liked me, you lying skug. And I’ve never liked you, either.”

He could only stare at her.

“Except… your coat. I like your coat.”

She lowered her blaster, and raised the saber.

Her thumb crawled up the hilt, found the activator, and hit it with a burning malice. The blade erupted from its slanted tip, punching a hole through the weequay’s leathery face and out the other side.

His grip on the hilt loosened and fell. When the weapon deactivated, he did, too. She took the weapon... and his jacket. Bundled now in its crimson embrace, she fled the scene with so many screaming civilians.

The stormtrooper squadron charging toward her were none the wiser. They ushered her past, directed her to safety, and fired into the warzone beyond, where Blass’s gang and dozens of citizens fought their ilk. Where explosions rocked, duracrete splintered, fires roared. Where the right-hand men of Reshhar Blass and the Captain both lay still, and would never rise again.

Amid a sea of chaos, she was more at peace than she’d been in years. And all it took were two murders and a stolen lightsaber.

She should have done this years ago.


	3. Three Arrivals

She stopped running just before her lungs gave out. She'd sprinted for blocks, then jogged a few more, and now she was huffing and puffing on the doorstep of an apartment complex. She braced herself with hands on her knees, as it was all she could do to stay upright. Despite it, she felt fantastic. She hadn't felt a rush like this since… since?

Had she _ever_ felt a rush like this?

Curious civilians wandered toward the distant sound of blaster fire with a morbid curiosity, but most had vacated the streets. The battle still raged far behind her. Comforted by the distance, she took a moment to truly process Reshhar's words: _Emperor Palpatine, murdered by the Rebellion_. Could he truly be dead? What did that mean for the Empire? Their reign began when she was only a child, and she could barely remember the time before. Who would take his place? Could anyone? He very well could have been full of bantha crap, but the garrison _had_ fought rather hard to silence what might only have been a rumor. If only the holonet weren't run so extensively by propaganda, then maybe --

_Thoom!_

Something massive erupted in the sky above, louder than anything she’d ever heard. She felt it hit like a hammer to her gut. Thought evaporated as everyone in sight flinched. The reverberation began to fade, and was soon replaced with a low and rumbling roar which echoed from all directions at once. A few dumbfounded seconds passed before she recognized the sound: a ship’s engine, amplified to an unimaginable scale. Klaxon alarms sounded everywhere in Tirik just as a tidal wave of red sand blew over the city, pushed by some sudden wind. The ground shook, then steadied, but the wind did not stop. A ship entered the atmosphere, then -- a big one at that. Was it the Rebel Alliance, here to kick the Imperials to the curb? Or was it the Empire themselves, to stomp them into so much dust?

She didn’t stand around to find out. She started running, but her thighs and lungs ached, so she found an alleyway to slow her pace while staying hidden. She wound her way through a maze of back alleys, creeping through dusty shadows and avoiding the nearby sounds of stormtroopers. “Return to your homes,” they shouted on the main roads. “A curfew is in effect.” Folk grunted back, but scattered quickly enough.

She rounded a corner onto a seemingly empty street, only to walk straight into a squad of six troopers. They stared intently at a holographically projected map of the city, flickering blue from a handheld device.

“... a barricade here, then we -- ! Hey!” Their hushed whisper broke as they spotted her. “You there! Halt!”

She raised an eyebrow and pointed quizzically at herself. Blasters were raised, but not _quite_ aimed, so much as gestured threateningly.

“There is a curfew in effect, citizen” This soldier’s tinny voice maintained an impersonal sense of command. The orange shoulder pad marked her as their leader. “Go home, immediately!”

“She looks like a vagrant,” said another. “What do we do with _those_?”

The girl sneered at that. “I’m not from Tirik,” she said, trying to wiggle out of capture or worse. "My first day in the city in a while. I'm from one of the foundry towns out--"

But then another trooper’s gaze shot up from the datapad she’d been eyeing. “Hey, she’s on the list! Wanted for questioning!”

“Stun her!”

Something between panic and a headrush racked her. Without thinking, she darted back the way she came. A ring of cobalt energy flung from a blaster, barely missing her. She sprinted a dizzying route through alleys and back roads, now utterly lost in a part of Kirik she’d never seen, lungs on fire. The squad behind her was bounding along awkwardly in their armor, field of vision restricted by the small lenses in their helmets, heat probably baking them inside. Her lead was slight at first, but it gained over time, and still she ran. Though she dreaded finding a dead end, none came. Every turn in this insane maze of a city seemed to lead _somewhere_ , so on she pressed, though her muscles screamed and screamed to stop.

And stop she did, much to her chagrin. She was passing an open alley door just as a man had stepped outside. He held a bag full of garbage which fell from his grip as they collided, and both grunted in pain and toppled over. They landed in a heap on the ground, their fall not-so-softly cushioned by the trash bag. Blissfully, it refused to burst. Perhaps she’d become as filthy as the universe would possibly allow, some cosmic joke an inch away from going too far.

The armored footfalls approached, distant but catching rapidly. “Blast!” she swore, and rose on aching legs, supporting her dizzy head in one palm, her other pressed to the cold duracrete. “I’m sorry, but I’ve gotta go!”

But the stranger she’d assaulted, his complexion a richly green marred only with dark, geometric tattoos on his cheeks, grabbed her by the hand. “No, no, come on!” he whispered. “Inside!”

She almost resisted. Then, she remembered the bounty on “the thief who stole the governor’s blaster.” _How the hell did Cap manage_ that _job, anyway?_ Questioning, she might deal with. But if they found the blaster? She'd be put to a damn firing squad. Not to mention her newest acquisition.

Needless to say, she went with the flow of things. Her sudden accomplice pulled her through the open door, dragging his bag of trash along with them. It slammed shut, and mere seconds later a legion of boots clambered by outside. Neither breathed until the squad passed, but they did, and didn’t return. Only then did his firm-but-gentle grip release her hand.

“Well, that was lucky." Clearing her throat turned into a coughing fit.

“Was it?” His handsome face twisted into a smirk, oddly and playfully familiar, for such a stranger.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “Unless you planned that, which…” She didn’t need to say it, but it was doubtful. Strangers rarely set out to save one another, and when they did, there tended to be less toppling. Or garbage. Or Imperials, come to think of it.

“Maybe not, but… ever hear of the Force?”

She rolled her eyes. “Oh, don’t preach at me, please.”

He only laughed, his bright eyes playful and smiling. “Relax, I’m joking. I’m not that kind of guy, and this isn’t that kind of place.”

“And where would that be, exactly?” They were in some kind of storage room, lined with shelves full of sealed crates. The only doorway -- other than the one they’d entered -- bore only a simple violet curtain. Dull lights pulsed slowly beyond, rhythmic in white and red.

“Oh, your luck’s only beginning, my friend. It looks like you just might need a bath.”

She knitted her brows, keenly aware of the grimy lock snaking down her forehead.

“Well,” he lilted, “you’ve come to the right place.”

 

***

 

He was Mirialan, and said his name was Len. She guessed he was about her age: late twenties, slim build, with medium-length dark hair that seemed a manufactured sort of messy, as if he’d spent too long in front of a mirror crafting an unmoving impression of bedhead. Perhaps it was disarmingly attractive to some. To her, it seemed frivolous.

“Welcome to Len’s Saloon & Bathhouse,” he’d said as they entered, sweeping his arms across the vista. It was dimly lit, lights pulsing in time with music which gave the space a slow but youthful undertone. The decor was kitschy, resembling a late-Republic-era diner drowned in the dark palette of a nightclub. Black and violet dominated, matching the fine clothes her host wore. The layout almost resembled a restaurant, but its tables were far too sparse. One wall sported a long and well-stocked bar, another a broad staircase leading to a second-floor balcony, which wrapped around most of the space. Perhaps most odd: more crates like those in back were stacked together in an empty corner, piled high, incongruous with the aesthetic. Gentle lights blinked on their control panels, confirming they were unsealed.

It was barely after noon, so the place was dead, vacant of anyone but the pair of them, a human bartender with a salt-and-pepper beard, and a scantily-clad quarren woman seated on the steps.

That was telling enough. If this _was_ indeed a bathhouse, then there was only one industry able to covering the costs of public refreshers on such a dry world: the oldest in the galaxy. Ironically, this joint’s biggest seller wasn’t even in the name.

“‘Saloon & Bathhouse,’ huh?" She rolled her eyes. "Thank you for your time, Len, but I... I need to get going.”

“Wait, wait!” He circled around and stopped in her path, not forceful, just pleading. “This isn’t about business."

"Isn't pleasure the same thing, here?"

"Very funny. You seemed down on your luck is all, and I take pity on -- ”

“I don’t need your pity.”

He winced and changed tact. “But you _do_ need a bath.”

The bartender cut in: “That explains the smell.”

“Kal’in, what is _wrong_ with you?”

“What?” He shrugged. “I'm used to sweat-smell, but not  _that_ much."

"Okay. We’re getting away from the point, here.”

She crossed her arms, cutting in again. “What _is_ your point?”

“My point is… first one’s on the house.”

“Wow, a whorehouse with a happy hour? Unfortunately, I’ll have to pass.”

“Gods almighty! First _bath_ is on the house. Or refresher shower, if you’d rather.” He wasn’t embarrassed, just frustrated at the miscommunication. Or so, at least, it seemed. “You really could use it.”

“Oh.” She took a moment, soaked in the situation, and looked him dead in the eye. Once upon a time, she might have been embarrassed by the assertion. Now, though… she was numb to it, and he was right. She really, truly could. “Thanks. Why, though?”

“Eh, these days, the Empire only seems to chase after good sorts. And… I don’t know. You remind me of myself, once upon a time.”

She snorted a laugh. “Sure, then. I guess.”

“Sorry. For the confusion. And the...” His hands gestured loosely and wildly, as if to say, _everything_. “Yeah. I’m sorry.”

“Just point me to the refresher.”

And he did.

 

~~~

 

The comm blinked. “ _Incoming holocall_ ,” read the tiny text on her screen. “ _Origin: Tirik, Qimmir_.”

A field of stars glimmered beyond the ship’s cockpit, and its devaronian pilot traced them with her eyes. Her quarry hadn’t arrived yet, and she had no way to know when they’d show. Meanwhile, she knew exactly who was calling and why. “ _Hey, sis, how’s the business going_ ?” he’d ask. “ _Weather here sucks, yadda yadda yadda, and so on_.” Drivel. Did she have time for it now?

Probably not. But what the hell else was there to do?

Just as she hit the “answer” key, the sender cancelled and the call ended.

“Oh, devil’s sake,” she spat. “Veedee, can you call them back for me?”

VD-1 beeped in agreement from her spot on the ship’s wing, and the holocom blinked to life, scanning her face and waiting to be received. “ _Recipient: Tirik, Qimmir_ ,” said the readout.

It blinked and beeped, blinked and beeped, and remained that way for some time. Eventually, she gave up. The call ended, and she went back to staring at the expanse before her.

Immediately, her holocom blinked again, receiving another call. “ _Origin: Tirik, Qimmir_.”

“Oh, for the love of…” She slammed on the answer key and, finally, a holographic image appeared.

It was not who she’d expected to see.

“Uh. Hello?”

“Is this the bounty hunter, Jayce?”

“That it is, my large friend. _You_ must be my brother’s boss.” The huge, chin-horned head staring back certainly matched Reshhar Blass’s description. “How’s it goin’, big guy? You wanna get Iumlat something for Life Day, or is this about business?”

“I’m calling as a courtesy,” he said, and she swore she could hear blaster fire in the background on his end of the call. “And to offer you a job.”

“Well, see, I’ve already got one of those, but try again in a few days.”

And just as she said it, a hyperspace lane opened in the black before her and an Imperial shuttle popped out, landing in what was supposed to be an abandoned sector.

It, of course, was not.

“Whoops, gotta go!”

“Wait, hold -- !”

She shut off the communicator, thrust, and fired twin laser cannons. Lines of blue tore from her ship’s wings, hitting first the shuttle’s nearest wing, then its fin, and as she circled around behind, finally its engine. Crippled, the shuttle began to drift. “Too damn easy,” she muttered, engaging her tractor beam and preparing to board. “Usually, you lot are more interesting than that.”

And as if hearing her words and hoping to insult her, the shuttle self-destructed in a blinding flash of light.

 _Kriff_.

Shrapnel was flying at her now, and she reversed thrust, deftly angling her craft so the bulk of it would fly past. Some hit and sheared plates and wires from her hull. As the power faltered, the astromech outside beeped into the ship’s comm channel and began repairing the damage.

She could see bodies flying from the wreckage, some red and bloody from the explosion, some blue and purple from sudden asphyxiation. Most were missing limbs. All were dead, or would be in seconds. Worse, everything onboard that she could see was shattered, broken, and drifting apart. Shards scattered and glistened, catching light and adding new stars to the endless night.

Her employer wouldn’t be too happy about that. But luckily for Jayce, she had another prospective job.

“ _Recipient: Tirik, Qimmir_ ,” her display read again, and Blass answered the call.

“Well then, sorry for the holotag. A very large convor tells me you’ve got a job.” She smiled.

It wiped away with the following words: “Iumlat is dead. Killed by a local gangster. They stole something of mine, as well. Something vital to my operation.” He paused, waiting for her to say something. When she didn’t, and simply stared slack-jawed at him, he continued: “I need you to find and return it, and to avenge your brother.”

“How much?” She asked more out of habit than care.

“Fifteen for recovery of the item.”

Fifteen hundred was incredibly low for a job like this, but it was something with which to keep the lights on, at least. Iumlat was an obnoxious prick, but he was family. The only family she had left. Besides, what more did she expect from some gangster baron on a backwater world?

“Twenty if you bring me the killer’s head.”

Well, she didn’t expect that. “Twe--? Twenty _what_?”

“Twenty thousand credits. Are we on a bad connection? Fifteen thousand for the item. Twenty thousand for the kill. Do I make myself clear?”

_Twenty thousand?!_

“Absolutely. Crystal. Transparisteel-deck-on-a-cruise-liner clear. I’ll need details, of course.”

“And you’ll get them. Here, on Qimmir.”

She stared out at the destruction in front of her, wondering what the hell the Imperials were even carrying that was worth self-destruction over capture. Whatever it had been worth, it was nothing compared to this.

Jayce could pay off her current employer and be well on her way to buying a new ship. She might not even have to buy used this time. _We’re in the big leagues now, baby_. And all it took was the death of her own dear brother.

At that rate, maybe he should have died years ago.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ... And here we meet our other POV character and secondary protagonist. It might be a while before she shows up again, mostly because I want to distinguish her voice a bit more before I really give her the spotlight, but for now I wanted to introduce our devaronian friend so we had another iron in the fire.


	4. Starbird

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll be honest, I have no idea what people want out of fanfiction. I wouldn't put this much character building stuff in the beginning of a personal work, but I want to get it out of the way now so I can play around with it later. We'll see if it works! Hopefully it's fun for someone other than me, even though I doubt this character has won any hearts or minds yet.

A crusted layer of dust and grime hardened like sand in a rising tide. But the more water fell, the heavier it got, and soon it fell away. Piece by piece, clump by clump, it vanished from her skin.

Matted hair became a mass of suds, then separated finally into individual strands, ends split, but free at last. Dirt hit the refresher floor and fled down its drain. Old sweat melted away. Cuts on her arms and bruises on her legs stung from heat and soap and pressure, but quickly faded, and soon all she felt was the downpour of fresh, clean water. She opened her mouth and let it collect, swished it around, then spit. Then she did it again, gargling two, four, a _dozen_ more times.

The Empire was far from her thoughts. In its place, strangely, she thought of the Rebellion. She’d never given it much thought before, but suddenly she remembered a woman she’d met years ago. It was after the Empire’s so-called “Death Star” had been destroyed, their first true victory, a crack in their sleek white armor.

The woman, a pilot in the Alliance, had explained the significance of their emblem. It was a swooping, three-pronged crest, circular and crimson red. By now, the pilot’s explanation of its relevant symbolism and historical precedent was lost from her memory. She only cared to remember the fable it depicted.

 _“It’s called a phoenix_ ,” explained the pilot, “a _magical bird born from starlight. It comes from old legends all around the galaxy, said to have all kinds of powers. Some say it grants wishes, or defeats armies, what have you. But all agree: it lives, and withers, and like everyone, it dies… but in its very last moment, it explodes in a supernova of fire. It’s born again almost the same, but… wiser. Stronger, even_.”

The imagery struck her even then. “ _Phoenix? Does that mean anything?”_

“ _It_ _does_ .” The pilot had smiled, and patted lovingly at the insignia stitched to her shoulder. “ _It means ‘starbird’_.”

Maybe it wasn’t fire that surrounded her in Len’s refresher, but on a world like Qimmir, perhaps water was in some way its equivalent. It was a new day, perhaps even a new age. She’d taken her first step toward defiance of her so-called Captain, cutting down Loquin like a string between them. The puppetmaster still loomed, of course, but times were changing fast. The way things were going, with a war raging downtown and some new ship’s arrival, who knew if Tirik would still be here tomorrow? _Or even Qimmir_ , she thought, remembering the Death Star and Alderaan.

She stood in the running water for a time, pondering all of this, more than clean but letting water and thought wash over her. More than the galaxy at large had changed: she had, too. She shut off the water and like the phoenix she rose, reborn anew in her ashes, which dripped down the drain behind her.

In the spacious private room beyond, Len had laid out an outfit for her, black with violet accents like his. The form-fitting shirt and pants were accentuated with simple, swooping lines. A slim shoulder mantle clasped in a silver chain in front, blanketing her shoulder blades. Her _Flintock 9-90_ lay on the counter, clasped in a new synthleather holster, hooked to a belt. Tall black boots sat by the doorway, and Loquin’s long red coat hung from a hook above it, lightsaber tip peeking from a pocket.

Yeah, she hoped Len hadn't noticed that.

She dressed, hit the defogger on the mirror wall, and nearly gasped at the sight. The clothes didn’t fit perfectly, but damned if they didn’t look good on her. Loquin’s burgundy coat contrasted wonderfully. Her high cheekbones, no longer marred by years of muck and grime, stood sharp on the tan of her skin. Her hair was black from the water, but some hint of its auburn edge had finally returned. She noticed how long it had grown, and made a mental note to tie it back or chop it off.

She also looked older. It had been months since she’d bathed at all, but _years_ since she was spotless, perhaps as long as a decade. Creases and lines formed around her face to frame her eyes, nose, and mouth. Finally, she looked her age, and the disparate pictures of mind and body inside her clicked together for the first time. She felt wise and powerful, like a force for change. The weight of the lightsaber in her pocket only emphasized that.

She breathed in, and out again. Strapping the blaster back to her hip, she left the room a different woman than the girl who’d entered: a starbird’s second life, bound for the black sky.

 

***

 

“Oh,” Len breathed, craning his neck back. He’d been placing an assortment of items in a half-empty crate, but froze on her approach. “That’s… different.”

“ _You_ picked out the clothes, didn’t you?”

“Yes, but I didn’t expect _quite_ …” He studied her for a moment, considering, and evidently decided not to finish that thought. “How do they fit, by the way?”

“A lot better than what I walked in with.”

“I believe it,” he chuckled. “Do you want those _back_ , or…?”

“Stars, no. Get rid of ‘em.”

“Ha. Absolutely, my dear.”

Kal’in butted in again: “Incinerator should do the trick nicely.”

“ _Kal!_ ” He found a balled-up handkerchief in his box and hurled it behind the bar. It veered far left of Kal’in, but he dodged anyway, smiling. “Hmm. He’s right, though. Incinerator is probably for the best. That smell...”

She could have been embarrassed for the state she was in, but she wasn’t. At the end of the day, it was never up to her.

“What did you say your name was, again?” Len asked, awkward in the face of stern silence.

“I didn’t.”

“Well, I’d love something to call you by, Miss…?” He outstretched a beringed green hand to shake.

“Zeth -- ” she began, unthinking, and trailed off. “Um…” _I’m a new woman_ , she thought. _Leave behind the old life. And all the bondage with it_.

“I’m sorry? ‘ _Zaith_ ,’ did you say?” He had a flamboyant way about him, twisting his wrist and cocking his head with every question, making each gesture grander than it should have been. But as it turned out, the grandness here was apt.

 _Zaith_. That, she liked. It had power, elegance, agency… it reminded her, perhaps, of the sound of a cranked-up blaster firing, or the hum of a lightsaber burning to life. It wasn’t perfect onomatopoeia, but in concept, somehow, it fit. “Yeah,” she nodded. “Zaith.” She took Len’s hand, and with a handshake, that became her name.

“Well then,” Len smiled. “Good to meet you, Zaith. Sorry, thought I misheard. Never heard the name before, and I’ve known my share of humans.” Kal’in grunted from behind the bar.

“It’s alright.”

“Hey, if you’ve got nothing else going on and need a few credits tossed your way, I could use some help packing. You caught me on my last day in business, see. Moving offworld, the whole shebang.”

“Ah. Sorry. Can’t. I’ve got plans.”

“With those stormtroopers I saved you from?”

Zaith chuckled darkly. “That was a misunderstanding.”

“Right.” He winked.

“I’m meeting up with an old friend. He owes me some credits.”

“In the city? With _this_ curfew?”

“I’ll manage.”

He flashed a sly and sinful smile which contradicted the question he asked: “You want a bite to eat first?”

“I’m…” She was going to say _fine_ , but the adrenaline had faded and a pain in her stomach was telling. “Kriffing starving. Yeah.”

“Great! How do you feel about bar bites?”

Last week, she ate a druss-rat roasted on a sewer fire. She wasn’t gonna tell Len that, whose rings, necklaces, and finely-pressed clothes marked him as one with exquisite taste, but that didn’t stop her from thinking back on it. “Well,” she said, “if that’s all you have…”

 

***

 

She was headed out back, the way she’d come, but stopped before the curtain. “How much do I owe you, by the way? For the digs?”

He waved a hand. “Eh. Clothes are free. Traveling offworld, remember? The less mass I have to lug, the less fuel I burn.”

It was a sort of kindness she’d never experienced before. Nothing in life had come free, not since she was a child. She wanted to question him, to know why it was he’d treated her this way, what he wanted in return. But he was leaving Qimmir, never to see her again. Len must have known that.

And then he smiled, and added: “But the roastbeetles? That’ll be six credits.”

She wanted to ask him why he bothered with her at all, why he'd stick his neck out for anyone, why Qimmir hadn't pummeled his heart and soul into the ground yet like everyone else. She wanted to ask where he was from, where he was going, why he was leaving.

But her reasons were her own, and his were his, too. She found her credpurse in the pocket of her coat, and slapped two fivers into his hand. "Keep the change." Zaith opened the curtain to the back room, letting the pulsing lights wash over her one last time. “Good luck with the move, Len.”

“And good luck with the Imperials. And your old friend.”

The back door hissed open, and the dusty back alley greeted her again. She placed a steady hand on the grip of her blaster and slinked into the shadows, door sliding shut behind her. The smile she wore vanished, her mouth drawing a hard line across her face. Burgundy coattails drifted behind in the sand-laden wind, faded from earlier, but still kicking.

The bounty hunter now and forever known as Zaith fled to the desert sands to her gang’s compound, toward death or victory, heart set to kill.


End file.
